Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

20. Zoya

20

ZOYA

M ara and I live on the same block. She doesn’t normally catch the late bus home, but her boss, who owns an apartment in Nikita’s building, was hosting a late-evening event. Mara altered her roster, hopeful the two-hundred-dollar cash payment she’d receive would keep her fed for a month.

The perp stole it along with a necklace she’d inherited from her mother and a fake tennis bracelet her boss had gifted her last Christmas.

Helping Mara kept my veins flooded with adrenaline for the past forty minutes. Now that they’ve simmered, I realize there are a handful of calls I need to make on a phone I no longer have.

That’s what led to me standing outside my building supervisor’s apartment, praying he is an early riser.

I’m about to knock for the second time when Mr. Fakher’s door slowly inches open. Except it’s not Mr. Fakher answering. It is a man who has a far slimmer stomach and a headful of hair.

I inch back to check I’m at the fourth door from the stairwell. Mr. Fakher gave me directions plenty of times to make sure it stuck, but it’s early and I’m tired, so I could have miscounted.

Once I’m certain I have the right apartment, I turn my eyes back to the man who has to be in his early fifties. “I was seeking the building sup?”

He flashes his pearly white teeth before replying, “You’ve found him.” He fans his hand across his chest. “Luka Traite. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

His sleezy rake of my body during what is meant to be a term of endearment assures me I have the right property. All building supervisors are the same—one immoral gesture from criminal charges.

Although I’d rather brush off his eagerness in the same manner I do Mr. Fakher, I can’t. He is my only lifeline to the world outside my apartment walls.

“Mr. Fakher was meant to fix my landline last month.”

Luka’s brow arches as high as his voice. “You still have a landline?”

“Yes.” I don’t mention it is because its previous tenant was on life support that required constant connectivity in the event of a cell service failure. The particulars don’t matter, and I’m too tired to pretend they do. “But it isn’t working, and I don’t have access to a phone, so I was wondering if I could use the landline in the security office.”

He waits a beat before asking, “What happened to your phone?”

His question exposes he was born in at least the last five decades.

Even Gigi knows no one over the age of ten gets around without a phone these days.

“It was stolen?—”

“You got jumped?” He pulls me into his apartment before scanning the hallway like the perp is standing behind me, digging his gun into my ribs. “Where?”

I wiggle out of his hold before answering, “At the Myasnikov Private Hospital bus stop.”

“Why the fuck were you at a bus stop?”

I glare at him like he’s stupid. “To catch a bus.”

His expression matches the one I’m hitting him with. “You’d rather catch the bus than get around in that sweet-ass ride parked in your parking bay?”

I’m lost, and mercifully, I don’t need to announce that.

“There’s a brand-new Audi in your bay. It was delivered last week.” His tone gets more and more suspicious the longer he talks. “I thought it was yours?”

Assuming he’s one of those goody two shoes who bring in the police for a minor incident, I say, “I no longer need a parking spot, so I let another tenant use it.” He doesn’t believe my lie. I don’t blame him. It was a doozie. “Anyway, back to the reason for my early-morning visit. I need to borrow a phone so I can tell my friend that I arrived home safely.”

“Oh… yep… right. Checking in is good.” He coughs to clear the rattle in his throat before gesturing me to take a right at the end of the entryway hall. “You can use mine. It’ll be easier than trudging back down the stairs to the security office. The elevator is out.”

His mention of the defunct elevator exposes he hasn’t worked here for long. It’s been out of operation for over eighteen months.

When we arrive in the living area, I scan my eyes over the apartment that is meant to be the pick of the bunch. It isn’t. There are no good apartments in this part of Myasnikov. They’re all dumps.

No wonder he didn’t believe my lie. No one in this part of Myasnikov can afford a secondhand foreign car, much less a new one.

“You can use this while I get dressed.”

He hands me a phone that is as dated as the carpet in his living room before he heads for the sole bedroom.

Mercifully, I know Nikita’s number by heart, so it is the first number I call.

“Hello,” she answers, her tone ripe with suspicion.

“Hey—”

Her relieved breath cuts me off before a heap of words. “Z… You scared me half to death. I thought someone was calling to say you’d been hurt. I’m still your first point of contact, right? I was tracking the bus’s route, so I know you only got home ten minutes ago, but you weren’t answering your phone, so I panicked and?—”

“Breathe, Nikita,” I demand when the exhausted whistle of her lungs whizzes through my ears. When she does as asked, I say, “I was helping a fellow passenger. She…”—when I realize my reply will never see me walking the streets of Myasnikov alone again, I alter it—“was a little groggy after a long day, so I walked with her to make sure she got home safely.”

“Aww.” Since she can’t see me, she believes my lie. Her truth-seeking talents aren’t as capable over the phone. “That was really kind of you, but I hope you didn’t get too close. Multiple cases of gastroenteritis were reported today at Myasnikov Private. It is highly contagious.”

“Yippee. No diet for me this month.”

She groans before her smarts kick back on long enough to put me on the back foot. “Whose phone are you using? Your number didn’t come up.”

“Ah…” This lie takes me a little longer to summon than its predecessors. “My building sup’s.”

“Zoya! If I find out you’re paying your rent by?—”

A shocked scoff helms my interruption. “My phone went flat, so he let me use his so you wouldn’t worry.”

She swallows harshly before pushing out the quickest apology. “I’m sorry.”

“As you should be.” I could leave it there, but that would make my life more boring than it has been the past two weeks. “I stopped turning tricks for coins months ago.”

“Z…” What should be a stubborn snap is more a whiny groan.

“I’m joking.” It’s more years than months. “But you can make up for your insult by doing me a favor.”

“Anything,” she immediately answers, announcing why she will always be my best friend.

“In the box you mentioned earlier is a bill with a phone number scribbled across it. Can you tell me what that number is?”

You shouldn’t be able to hear someone’s brain ticking over a million miles an hour. I can. But since Nikita will always be more inquisitive than she is stubborn. She doesn’t grill me about the extra cash in her cardboard box safe until after she’s flipped off its lid.

“Z, there has to be an extra three thousand dollars in here.” Ruffling sounds down the line before she asks, “Where did you get this money from?”

“It doesn’t matter?—”

“It does matter,” she interrupts, shouting. “I can’t accept it.”

I’m on the defense immediately. “You can and you will. It isn’t up for negotiation. Grampies is my grandfather too, so it isn’t solely your responsibility to look after him.”

She wants to argue, but since it would break my heart, she remains quiet.

“So can you please get me the number on one of the bills so I can make sure I can keep contributing?”

My voice is on the verge of cracking, and I’m not the only one noticing. Its husky wobble is the sole reason Nikita agrees to my demand with the faintest snivel.

After many rustles, she asks, “Do you have a pen?”

I nod like she can see me.

She must hear its whoosh, as she recites Mikhail’s number without additional prompting.

I read it back to her to make sure I have it correct before whispering, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

I won’t survive another rejection, especially not from her. She is using her studies to become something great. I can’t even get a job at McDonalds.

My heart stops being strangled when Nikita replies, “I’m not mad. I love you, Z.”

“I love you too, Keet.” With my voice holding too many emotions, I cut our chat short. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She reminds me it is already tomorrow before advising me she will call me before her upcoming double shift. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

I wait for her to disconnect our call before lifting my eyes to my new building supervisor. He’s dressed and looking somewhat relieved—until I say, “Can I please make one more call? It’ll be quick.”

His eyes lower to the number I scribbled across my palm before he licks his lips. “Sure. That’s fine.” He nudges his head to the kitchen. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I don’t drink caffeine this early.”

He mumbles something about it not being for me before he disappears into the poky kitchen.

I dial Mikhail’s number I need to memorize since my sweaty hands are already smudging the digits.

He answers not even two rings later.

“You better have good fucking news or I’ll?—”

“Slay me with your marshmallow heart?”

“Zoya… fuck… Jesus.” The revs of a motorcycle lower before they completely end. “What the fuck happened? One minute we were talking. The next minute?—”

“You hitched a ride with a man who couldn’t tell the difference between a Nokia C12 and the latest iPhone.” In case you’re wondering, I know the difference but could only afford a Nokia. Although that may now be out of my price range as well. “My phone was stolen at the bus stop.”

“You got jumped?” He waits for me to murmur in agreement before asking, “Were you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

“No.” His relieved sigh gives me the warm and fuzzies. “But another passenger wasn’t as lucky. She got knocked around pretty bad.” I turn to face the direction of Mara’s building. “She wouldn’t let me call the police, so I helped her to her feet and made sure she got home safely.”

I have no idea why Mikhail deserves my honesty more than Nikita does. The truth just blurts from my mouth before I can stop it.

“I’m glad you were there to help her and that you weren’t injured as well, but Jesus, Sunshine. You scared the shit out of me.”

I’m a gooey, sticky mess, but I try to downplay how nice it is to have another person on my side with humor. “I recommend throwing out your armchair. Dry cleaning would be the cheapest option to handle the mess, but who wants to admit they shit themselves?”

Mikhail’s laugh roaring out of the building supervisor’s phone weakens the worry on my face as quickly as it does the sup’s.